


Snap Snap

by Varjo



Category: Addams Family (TV 1964), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Because it IS an Addams Family fic, Car Wreck, Crowley and Cleopatra, Crowley and Gomez and Trains, Crowley drives, Crowley is So Done (Good Omens), F/M, Humor, I already outlined the whole thing, I think that's enough now, M/M, Morbid, Poison, Pugsley and Wednesday are aged up a bit, The Author Regrets Nothing, almost, and its unfortunate effects, and the ingestion thereof, and too nice for anyone, as is to be expected, aziraphale is oblivious, but make it black, but not the Bentley, framed as toys, hospitality, or so he thinks, torture instruments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26837368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Varjo/pseuds/Varjo
Summary: So you've finally managed to get your an- um, I mean, friend to accompany you on one of your frequent trips around the world, and you had to rent a car because a vintage Bentley doesn't do well with plane compartments, and then of course the rental you got dies somewhere around nothing and you have to rely on benevolent (ngk) residents for help. And then, there's that forbidding old mansion in 0001 Cemetery Lane......I present hereby the Good-Omens/ Addams-Family-crossover no-one ever wanted.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Gomez Addams/Morticia Addams
Comments: 44
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

In a situation like this, even a level-headed demon like Crowley had no choice but to grit his teeth.

He had wanted Aziraphale to accompany him on a trip around the world, hadn’t he? Well, he had got his wish. And thereby had successively seen reason after reason why he would rather travel alone next time. Not only did the angel have an opinion on everything and everyone that he also seemed unable to keep to himself, and ordinary passenger planes were as new and exciting to him as a box full of firecrackers to a toddler, it also didn’t seem ‘inconspicuous’ was his strongest suit. Why hadn’t he noticed before how incessantly Aziraphale could talk? Despite the fact that he had existed on Earth for centuries, his social skills were in a deplorable state. It was astonishing now to Crowley that he had somehow made it through Alex’ visit without blowing both their cover.

But well – if the demon was completely honest, this wasn’t his biggest complaint at the moment. His biggest complaints, in order of appearance, were the fact that he had had to leave his Bentley in London; the second fact that he had been determined to continue playing chauffeur and had therefore had to rent a car; the third fact that this rental had been a neon green and far too new – thing (at the office they had called it a “Smart,” though the demon failed to see anything particularly intelligent about it) that didn’t express a fraction, not even a spark of the Bentley’s dignity, and behind whose wheel he felt like a hollow-headed college kid in his first, completely inadequate vehicle; the fourth fact that something1 had ruined that lame excuse for a car so thoroughly that they were now stranded on a go- sa- somebody-forsaken road-side in the middle of nowhere in North America; the fifth fact that the sun was slowly setting and it was getting cold; and the sixth and final fact that Aziraphale. Would. Not. _Shut. Up._

“… possibly explain to myself why you have such a problem with asking for help. It won’t diminish your pride if we knock on one or two doors and ask the people who live around here if we can use their phone!”

Oh yes, fact four point five. He almost forgot that his cell phone had no reception here and that he didn’t know the number of any American emergency service.

 _Did_ they _have_ emergency services in America?

Of course there were no mortals to be seen, none far and wide, that one time when you needed them…

“Ngk,” Crowley grumbled, leaning lower over the smouldering engine.

Gradually he ran out of ideas – Aziraphale’s constant prattling in the background didn’t make things any better either. Every miracle he worked only seemed to worsen things; he had achieved nothing but that the colour of his palms now matched his clothes. There he was, assuming that he knew a pretty bit about how to deal with the machinery under car bonnets… 

Perhaps he should have tried to fix Ligur’s brain that one time – perhaps that would have devastated him more systematically than the Holy Water.

Under other circumstances he would have chuckled a little bit about his joke.

He straightened and combed through his hair, looking around apprehensively – twilight was getting so dense that he could see stars blinking. The moon was pale and waxing – without any further miracles, it would soon be too dark to continue playing around with the machine.

“I’ve got a suggestion,” he growled, throwing the hood down. “Let’s continue on foot. We won’t tire any time soon…”

“And just leave the car here?” The angel sounded indignant.

Crowley’s brow rose. “What's the problem with that now?”

“You signed a contract, Crowley. You took a responsibility! We need to return this car, in tip-top con…”

“Bollocks,” the demon waved this off, watching as the angel grimaced at the cuss word, already turning to go. “Contracts can disappear, as you know very well. Now come on – I think we passed a town or some such some forty minutes ago. Let’s just trek back, sleep there somewhere, tomorrow we can pick up this monstrosity…”

Crowley sensed danger as he saw Aziraphale turn around and scan the horizon testily, and his evil - good - oh, his _suspicions_ , dammit, were confirmed with the appearance of a spark of hope in his friend’s eyes. “Over there!” the angel exclaimed, pointing to a sparkle in the distance, “That must be a house. There are people living there – if we ask them politely, they will surely assist us.”

Crowley just opened his mouth to argue against it vehemently, but Aziraphale had already started to waddle hurriedly towards the shimmer in the distance. “Aziraphale!” Crowley called after him, moments away from stomping his foot or tearing at his hair, “OI! Come back this very instant! We’re not asking for help! We…”

He moved his mouth without saying a word – it didn’t seem there was any more to say.

And Aziraphale kept moving away…

With a rattling groan, the demon threw himself forward and, within a few hurried steps of his slender legs, caught up with his friend – he would have to carefully reconsider his usage of this term in the future, though. “This house,” he growled, “we’re trying this house. This one. If they throw us out or are at all creepy, we’ll do it my way.”

Aziraphale blinked. That old featherbrain, Crowley thought gruffly. “Like we were trying for about an hour or two, dear? Without a result to speak of?” he asked, completely innocuously.

I’m pushing this innocence down your throat, Crowley thought grumbling, clasping his hands behind his back and turning his eyes to his own feet, ploughing through the low, yellowing grass. It was autumn in this rather rural spot; the fields were harvested clean, the plants slowly retreated into the earth. At least it wasn’t raining…

“What do you mean by ‘creepy’, anyway?” the angel asked, but Crowley merely shrugged. He didn’t feel like arguing anymore. None of that led to anything… better he should let the situation run its course. Angel would get to learn his sorely needed lesson from the people who lived there, who wouldn’t be trustworthy, surely not; when had any plan of the angel’s ever worked? Then he would see that Crowley was right and he was wrong, and then they would move on, closing that theme neatly and filing it away under lessons learnt. Experiences like that, the demon assumed, were necessary every now and then.

He would comprehend, sooner or later.

“I am confident the people living there will be positively delightful. People are commonly friendly, don’t you think?”

Crowley didn’t comment. If he rolled his eyes any more violently, he would probably sprain them.

The wood-panelled house which the duo was approaching was spacious, a bit hulking, and thoroughly unapproachable; a little dark, but big old mansions usually had this air about them. It was three stories high and showed a turret with a bay window in front, from which two wings branched off; on the turret itself and on the gable roof next to it perched two wiry and crooked television antennas. Dim light shone from some of the high-ceilinged rooms. Crowley’s heart ached a little at the sight of the garden – if you could call it that – behind the metal fence: sumac and weeds on a muddy, swampy, deep floor, all neglected and flat; a few crippled firs that would hardly reach his shoulders.

Or were they just cheeky little plants that no one had shown who was boss yet…?

Crowley felt his jaws start to grind against each other almost by themselves.

“There you go,” Aziraphale mumbled, probably more to himself than to his friend, stopping in front of the chest-high gate and measuring the house from top to bottom.

Crowley eyed the metal fence and gate warily – a fence which had clearly seen better days. His attention was caught first and foremost by the old-fashioned mailbox and the warning sign attached above it.

“ **BEWARE OF THE THING** ,” it said.

The Thing? That was an eccentric name for a watchdog, indeed.

“Do you see a bell or something…”

The question resolved itself as Aziraphale took a cautious step towards the gate and it swung open by itself – squeaking and creaking. Crowley felt a twitch, preparing for escape; but he could not leave because his friend, speaking a sweetly well-mannered “Thank you” to nothing, entered the property this very moment on an unevenly paved pathway that led to a very skilfully crafted veranda.

The demon didn’t want to – wanted nothing less – but he followed.

After the angel and demon had barely taken more than three tentative (Crowley) and confident (Aziraphale) steps on the path, the gate bolted behind them with a clatter. Crowley started and jerked around with a pathetic squeak; Aziraphale gave him a reproachful look.

“The wind,” Crowley muttered, attempting to restore his self-assurance.

Blankly the angel turned his gaze to the rapidly darkening sky; he didn’t have to voice it. The demon was aware just as well that not a breeze was moving.

Sweeping this episode under the rug, the two entered the porch; Aziraphale went straight for the doorbell next to the tall, black-painted door. Crowley felt his mouth get dry as the angel first tried to push, then as that didn’t do anything tried to turn, and as that did a small thing finally concluded that one had to pull. More instinctively than anything else, Crowley had raised his nose and sniffed; something smelled bad here, but in no way that he could decode. It was supernatural and yet it wasn’t; it was utterly human and yet so different from the average person that the demon vaguely thought he could ponder upon it for a day or two without a definite result.

And where was that accursed watchdog?

Then two things happened in rapid succession.

First, there was a blare – maybe a foghorn? – so loud that it painfully vibrated in Crowley’s ear canals. He wanted to press his palms over his ears, but then the second thing happened: with a stupidly triumphant smile on his face, Aziraphale was torn toward the façade by the bell button still held in his hand. He was able to dampen his impact with the other hand, however, and before either he could regain his poise or Crowley could ask him with an alarmed hiss if everything was all right, the door had already been opened.

There was a monstrosity in the door frame. A man, at least two heads taller than they and unnaturally broad-shouldered – a body shaped like a closet – with unhealthy greenish-grey skin, rigid, marble-like eyes, a limp straight mouth and hair that looked so fake and repulsive that he just as well might have picked it out of the meadow outside. It smelled damp and musty too, reminiscent of moth repellent. This… thing… was dressed in a black butler uniform with a bow tie, and it carried a feather duster that was certainly useless because it looked, itself, quite dusty.

Crowley held his breath for a moment or two.

“Yoooooooouuuuuuu raaaaaaaaaang?” the creature rumbled, letting its lifeless gaze slide between Crowley and Aziraphale; the words slid from his lips and tongue, tough like syrup.

\----------------------------------------------------

1: Aziraphale insisted that it had been due to his wasteful use of miracle energy on the thing – an idea that the demon dismissed with a grumpy “ngk.” After all, he had only tried to improve it a little.


	2. Chapter 2

“Yes, my fine fellow.” Aziraphale, who had straightened up, smoothed his coat and checked his hair, sounded as if the butler’s concentrated oddity barely even registered with him. Self-assured. Carefree. Friendly, courteous as always. Indeed, he took another half step towards it, and the butler… thing raised a corner of its mouth, probably in the half-hearted parody of a smile. Crowley felt himself shudder. “My name is… Ambrose Zira Fell, this is my friend Anthony J. Crowley. We have, you might say, a little problem with a, well, broken down car. Yes. And we wanted… well, I wanted to ask if you could maybe, if you could help us, perchance… if we could use your phone…”

The creature grunted.

“Foooooollooooooooow meeeeeeeeeeee.”

Thus it spoke, turned around in almost tormenting slow motion and stalked stiffly into the house.

“How wonderful.” Of course, Aziraphale had to be delighted about these circumstances. “I told you, dear: people are generally supportive”.

“People, maybe,” Crowley replied, arms folded over his chest, “But that… maybe it’s been human. Once. I don’t even want to know what it is now. Come on now, let’s get out of…”

“No!” Crowley rolled his eyes. Only angel could possibly manage to sound this obstinate and petulant at the same time. “We have people here who can and want to assist us. Furthermore, we have already been invited in; we will do the proper thing and be as good guests as we are able to be, for as long as they will tolerate us.”

How Crowley hated in when Aziraphale put his foot down… he was never able to refuse him.

If we ever get out of here again, the demon sulked; but Aziraphale had already made preparations to follow the butler as directed, and Crowley, who felt that he could not leave his friend alone – couldn’t generally and could much less here – gritted his teeth, accepted his fate and joined the angel.

The things that you were wont to do…

At first glance, the house – the hallway, at least – made a reasonably normal and civilized impression. The one or the other strange painting or stuffed vulture, alas, who cared. Different countries, different customs, Crowley thought, and his mind immediately outdid itself, seeking to calm the demon: people and their decor taste – and he, too, had the one or the other trinket at home that he would have to explain to outsiders. Crowley tried his dam- blessedest to tread lightly – if experience had taught him one thing, then that it was never a mistake to keep one’s guard up. He tried to control the cold sweat and keep his breathing rate on a safe level as he and the angel followed the butler’s broad, black-clad back.

Normality, however, quickly faded in the living room which they soon reached. The butler announced and pushed them to the front. Crowley thought he could feel his eyeballs bulging out of their sockets. All of this… it was simply too much. His brain would short circuit if he wanted to consider and decode every element of what he saw at once.

‘Eccentric’ was a pleasant but very understated – no, it was not even a proper word for the decor of this house. The right word had yet to be invented, Crowley deliberated. The suits of armour, both European and Far Eastern, which were placed on either side of a passage at the far end were the least disturbing of the elements in this room. What was more noticeable was the huge stuffed polar bear which stood, rearing up on his hind legs, to their left, under the steps up to the first floor, and the empty fur of a second specimen, complete with its head, that was lying on the floor in front of them. 

There were two discernible trophies mounted on the wall. One was the head of a swordfish – Crowley reckoned it was a swordfish, though he couldn’t be sure, not being particularly educated in marine biology – out of whose open mouth a human leg protruded, still adorned with pant leg and a sock and shoe. The other, mounted above a mantelpiece, was the head of an elk or moose with one shovel turned askew. 

In front of the mantel sat a low, circular table with a shisha and a wicker armchair with an oval arched backrest. 

An expansive chandelier, all glasses cloudy, milky and blind, hung from the ceiling, and there were several multi-armed candlesticks with candles in various stages of burning down. 

At the other end of the room – estimated normality – there was an ancient harpsichord. The inhabitants also had a gramophone and an old Bakelite telephone… so, they seemed to be on roughly the state of technology angel was on.

Hangman’s nooses hung from the ceiling in various places, apparently completely erratic and without function.

That over there… was it a streetlamp?

A woman and a man were present in this room. The man, dressed in a striped suit that looked a bit too big and turning his back to them, scurried up and down in front of a waist-high, wide table that was full of equipment that the demon could not define from his current position. All he could definitely see was the thick, multi-coloured mishmash of wiring that led away from the table and into nothingness. The woman stood, with her arms crossed mummy-style and eyes closed, in a human-sized and vaguely human-shaped box – a box adorned at every inner surface with coarse, long, and definitely pointy nails. She seemed weirdly comfortable…

The demon couldn't help but to swallow in discomfort. What kind of hole had Aziraphale's unassumingness landed them in now...

The butler’s announcement tore the residents out of their… activities… their relaxation… whatever. While the man eyed them both from top to bottom with a somewhat puzzled expression – more directed at Aziraphale than at Crowley – the woman almost instantly broke into a radiant smile.

“Oh, you poor darlings,” she greeted them, stepping out of the iron maiden apparently entirely unharmed, traipsing towards them in her too tight and far too low-cut dress, “Thank you very much, Lurch. Of course we will do what we can to help. How lovely that this event brought you to us…”.

The butler – “Lurch”, apparently – retreated with a throaty grumble.

“By Jove, Cara Mia, you are right,” interjected the man, his mouth shaped into a grin under the broad moustache and around a fat cigar. He approached the woman who gently smiled up to the angel and demon and put his arm around her waist. “How long has it been since we had unexpected guests?”

“We would be very much indebted to you if you were to just... help us out a tiny bit,” Crowley heard Aziraphale’s voice intone beside him – he wanted to check the angel’s face but didn’t dare and instead glanced at his gently gesticulating hands. Was he the least bit affected by this scene? Sometimes it seemed to him that the angel was far more tolerant of other peoples’ quirks and idiosyncrasies than he was2.

“We won’t keep you for long,” Crowley heard himself say – his throat was scratchy, and he felt that he had to grab every word and force it out over his tongue, “We just have to… call a mechanic or towing service. We’ll be immediately gone, then. No need to worry.”

At least he hoped so…

“Now wouldn’t that be a shame.” The woman tilted her head, almost in a teasing way, and gracefully crossed her arms over her chest. Crowley was at a loss about what to feel, how to act; something in him wanted to be wary of her, but it seemed disproportionate. She didn’t give the impression that she was deliberately trying to hurt someone… “You just arrived, after all. I am Morticia Addams, and this is my brilliant husband Gomez…”

Aziraphale stepped forward. “Charmed, Ms. Addams, I’m sure,” he greeted with a smile, took Morticia’s hand and brought it to his lips, but accurately released it before touching it. “I am Mr. Fell – as your butler said – and this is my friend Mr. Crowley.”

“How lovely,” she breathed, “Welcome to our house, gentlemen.”

Crowley couldn’t keep his attention from fluttering back and forth between the iron maiden and their hosts. He gulped and hoped it hadn’t been too obvious. Was that what people did these days? Didn’t Aziraphale worry at all?

“Well, what can we do for you, now?” The man’s – Gomez’ – voice was lively and cheerful, stronger than his wife’s.

“A phone,” Crowley reiterated growling.

“Or someone who knows his way around car engines,” added Aziraphale good-naturedly, “if you have someone like that in the house at all.”

“Look no further!” Gomez’ grin was too eager. Way too eager. Something was dreadfully wrong here. “I know car engines like the back of my hand, you know.”

“That is true,” Morticia confirmed with a smile, “Gomez’ explosions are second to none. You won’t find such wonderful sparks anywhere else…”

“That is… unfortunately… not quite exactly what we’re looking for,” mumbled Crowley.

“Oh?” Morticia said, sounding downright disappointed.

“You see, we still want to use this car for travelling,” Aziraphale explained. The demon glanced at him furtively; he didn’t sound as if the situation upset him in any way, shape or form. However did he do that?

“Ah, the freedom of travelling,” said the woman understandingly.

“That apart from the fact that it is not in the strictest sense of the word our car, and that it would be fairly – yes, quite fairly mortifying for us to return a damaged car to the rental company, you can certainly understand that…” Aziraphale, Crowley thought, listening to the angel’s speech. Shut your trap. If you are not talking for dear life, then please please please be quiet and let us _leave_.

“How about Uncle Fester?” the man suggested next, gesturing with his cigar, “Give him two minutes with a car and he’s taken it apart and turned it into two motorcycles. Or a tricycle and… a single tire… I still remember the car that he converted into a boat…” He snickered. It seemed to be a fond memory.

Exasperating. This was what this was: exasperating. Pull yourself together, Anthony J. Crowley, he told himself. After all, it’s not Hell… you made it through that, you’ll make it through this.

“Listen, can you just help us find a mechanic?” Crowley’s voice took on a pleading tone, Aziraphale’s silent reproach that he better be polite rang in his mind, “Or take us to the next town so that we can find someone ourselves?”

Morticia thoughtfully put her finely manicured fingers on her chin. “We could indeed send Lurch into the city with you and the car after dinner,” she pondered aloud, “but, as I said, only after dinner. We will need him, Grandmama shouldn’t have to throw away his share, yes, and should the poor man drive off without anything in his stomach?”

“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale accepted gladly, “and we would be extremely grateful if your butler could drive us into town later.”

“Very much obliged,” Crowley agreed upon his friend’s cue – more of an automatic response than anything else.

“Then you will be our guests until then!” There was far too much honesty and zeal and far too little sinister sneakiness in Gomez’ joy as he gestured to the angel and demon to come in and make themselves comfortable. Crowley’s stomach still churned. “Querida, please tell Grandmama that we have two more eaters at the table, if you please, and I’m going to…”

“Of course, darling.” Morticia hobbled toward one of the nooses.

“Oh, but we positively cannot intrude, I mean, unannounced…” Aziraphale exclaimed, but…

“Nonsense!” interrupted Gomez cheerily, “Good hospitality is the least a proper Addams needs to ask of himself.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

2: This was only partially true. It would be more accurate to say that Aziraphale, especially in the light of past events, was so focused on not judging anyone that concerns like ‘normalcy’ did not even occur to him. In the end, they were just different ways to take life, and who would he be to raise an eyebrow?


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley fidgeted a bit, ignoring the fact that Aziraphale had accepted the invitation without a second thought, before walking down the three steps separating the entryway from the living room. On his way he put a foot onto the polar bear rug – which immediately responded with a bone-chilling roar. Crowley jumped back with a distorted yelp; yet, while Aziraphale shot him a piercing glance that said, ‘pull yourself together, Crowley, you will embarrass us both in front of these nice people,’ like nothing else, neither of their hosts paid any attention to it.

The wife had now reached her chosen noose and pulled it.

A gong resounded.

A gong so loud that the house shook in its foundations and plaster appeared to trickle down from the ceiling in particles.

Aziraphale, unprepared, staggered and erratically searched for something – anything – that he could hold onto to regain some stability. Crowley was uncharacteristically glad, this time, about the fact that the ‘something’ the angel managed to grab in the end turned out to be his elbow.

Out of nowhere, the butler stood next to Morticia, this time without the feather duster (“Yoooooouuuuuu raaaaaaaaaaaang?”). She didn’t seem to be perturbed at all, and she considerately waited for the monster to finish his acknowledgment before giving her instructions.

At that moment, however, the husband caught Crowley’s attention again. “I couldn’t help but notice you have been admiring our iron maiden ever since you walked in,” Gomez gushed before one of the guests had been able to say a word. He reached for Crowley; it took physical effort for him not to retreat with a fearful sound. The angel must have noticed it; his disapproving, yea, almost scathing look made the situation all the more grotesque. “Come, come! Try it on for size, it’s tremendously relaxing.”

“But, darling,” Morticia, having released the servant, beat Crowley to a response, “you know that a good iron maiden is made to measure. A maiden cut for me could never bring the gentleman the same sense of comfort.” She gave Crowley a radiant smile, walking back over to her husband and guests. Gomez conceded with a thoughtful smile, putting an arm around his wife's waist. “Nevertheless, I would be overjoyed to give you the name and number of the craftsman who made this outstanding piece so you may commission him to fashion something similar for you…”

“Querida, I think you will no longer be able to reach the craftsman…” Gomez chimed in.

“Oh, did he move?”

“Yes, I’m afraid…”

“Where to, Gomez, he must have left a forwarding address…?”

“Yes. Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, block G, row 5, grave 2.”

“Oh, that poor man! Did the horseman catch him?”

“No, the plague”.

“Well… c’est la vie, I gu…”

A change was going on with the husband – he tensed whole body, the smile gave way, and a kind of passionate sparkle shone from his eyes. It seemed that within the short moments of Morticia attempting this half sentence, his sanity had lost footing and he gradually slipped into obsessiveness. “Tish, this is French,” he murmured before grasping his wife’s wrist, yanking her arm up and kissing it obsessively.

“Speak some more! A la mode! Comme ci comme ca! Nous enfants de la patrie!”

Crowley sensed Aziraphale glancing sideways at him, giving a guarded, uncertain impression, but he ignored him as methodically as possible. If angel could play that game, Crowley could play along, by all means.

“Gomez, Gomez, Gomez,” the woman chided, and the man raised his head. “Not in front of our guests.”

Gomez, decelerating and clearly struggling to regain his composure, markedly gently put her arm back to Morticia’s side. The smile she shot him spoke volumes, and Crowley felt in the depths of his subconscious that these two shared something special. Something intoxicating. This was in stark contrast to the general eerie atmosphere around them, and it helped not the littlest bit in his process of deciding whether they were any danger at all. “Of course,” said the man in the striped suit, still hesitating and sounding as if under strain, “Of course… my dear.”

There was a pause.

“Won’t you take a seat, gentlemen,” the charming wife finally asked them, “it will probably still be a little while before dinner can be served. Unfortunately, yak needs its preparation, but that means we have time for a nice chat in the meantime. Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Not at all, not at all,” Aziraphale hurried to assure her as he sat down on a couch in front of the standing polar bear and pulled Crowley down next to him, “This is your house, please don’t let us get in the way of your daily routine…”

Morticia, after settling in the wicker armchair, said nothing but lovingly stroked a metal dragon statue next to her that immediately began to emit dense white steam.

“So,” Gomez, remaining on his feet behind Morticia's wicker chair, began the conversation in a cheerful mood and pushing his cigar from the corner of his mouth to the other, “I’ve never heard your accent, not that I could remember. From which corner of the world are you coming to visit us?”

“Oh – oh, London, United Kingdom,” Aziraphale replied.

“The United Kingdom!” Morticia seemed overjoyed to hear it. “It must be wonderful to live there. All that rain works miracles on the complexion, not to mention the character! You must tell us how things are there. We have relatives on the other side of the ocean, what was their name again…”

Crowley mentally distanced himself from the conversation with these oddballs that Aziraphale lead with a disquieting amount of enthusiasm and let his mind wander. What happened here irritated and frustrated him endlessly – mainly because he couldn’t assess the residents. Their decor and clothes and their – demeanour – seemed to unmistakably classify their hosts as top-notch madmen. Their diet? Well, Crowley had never eaten yak or even thought about trying yak, but then, otherwise perfectly ordinary people were strange enough to eat a fish that would kill them if it wasn’t prepared with utter, meticulous, almost pedantic attention to detail3. But on the other hand, they were so hospitable and convivial and seemed to treat at least each other so lovingly…

It was utterly frustrating. A labyrinth with no entrance or end.

Thus he thought until his gaze fell on what looked like a greenhouse – a greenhouse full of well-cared-for, almost too-well-cared-for plants. Now those looked like they knew the penalties for sluggish growth, leaf spots and dead leaves!

Time passed as Crowley took refuge in his mind, which meant in particular that he wondered what draconian means the homeowners must use to keep their foliage in line. He was very pleased that Aziraphale took the obligation to be a grateful guest and an amiable interlocutor on his own shoulders – sometimes he feared if he were addressed, even with a beep, “Ngk” would be the only thing he could utter.

Well, not that you couldn’t use “Ngk” to mean everything you wished it to mean…

Finally – they were finally called to the table by that mountain of a butler. 

“Be a dear and call the children too, Lurch, they are unusually quiet today,” the matriarch instructed Lurch while letting Aziraphale help her up. Gomez had offered her his hand as well; but he had taken a half-step back, not entirely pleased, upon Morticia giving him an apologetic look and instead taking Aziraphale’s golden-ringed hand. Crowley was mildly concerned. Now if that does not come back to bite you in the behind, angel…

And… children? Bless, these loons had _reproduced_?

“I sent them to the basement to play,” said Gomez, chewing on his cigar with his hands in his jacket pockets. “Kitty Cat gets too little attention either way, and the children can’t always play with dynamite and the electric circuit set. They have to learn sooner or later what it means to take care of a live being!”

Smiling, Morticia let go of Aziraphale’s hand and gave her husband an almost saccharine loving look. Crowley thought he'd soon go insane from the whiplash - the surroundings were definitely unsettling, but then that unadulterated adoration that spoke out of the host couple's demeanour... “Dear Gomez, always the best for all family members in mind,” she praised him, “Lurch? If you do not mind, now…?”

“Yeeeeeeeeees, Mrs. Aaaaaaaddaaaaaaaams,” the servant grumbled before ambling off.

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged glances – the angel once again looked far too balanced, relaxed, completely trustful and, yes, almost joyful – before at least the former put his hands in his coat pockets and followed their hosts. Crowley bit his lip and tasted blood. Again, he didn’t want to advance deeper into this madhouse; but again, he realized that he had no choice and, as a precaution, preferred to not even attempt fighting back.

Stubbornness was clearly Aziraphale’s profession…

In the dining room, they were expected by a short woman with a shock of snow-white hair and a gap-toothed grin. The table was set with a black tablecloth, candlesticks, black porcelain plates, and tarnished silver cutlery bent in every direction. Atop it sat proudly a broad cauldron from which steam and an indefinable, if slightly marshy, smell rose. Next to it was a rectangular wooden box with a handle on the lid, the demon wondered why and what for. The identical chairs around the table were high-backed and had soft, albeit certainly musty cushioning. “Ah, the old family silver,” said the matriarch approvingly before turning to her guests, “Mr. Fell, Mr. Crowley, may I present Grandmama Addams, my dear mother-in-law. Mr. Fell, you can sit here next to Gomez… Mr. Crowley, if you would take Uncle Fester’s seat…”

“So Uncle… Fester won’t be joining us today?” Crowley asked. Every word seemed to be stuck in his throat. Aziraphale, in the meantime, bowed to the white-haired woman to whom they had been thusly introduced.

“No, my friend.” Gomez smacked him between the shoulder blades when saying this, so abruptly that the demon nearly tumbled face-first onto the table. He really should be concerned about his muscle tone. “He is currently charging, that can easily take half a day…”

He was… charging?

He was charging.

No, Crowley would not question this. No happiness lay on this path…

Trampling, hurried as well as slouching footfalls finally indicated the return of the butler with the children. These children were a fat boy, reaching about to Crowley’s midriff, with a repulsive pot haircut and a striped sweater that didn’t exactly compliment his figure, and a slightly smaller girl in a short black dress with white details, such as buttons along the front and a Peter Pan collar on which two black braids rested, and preppy little jet-black shoes.

How old might these children be – twelve, maybe fourteen? Three or four years between them?

The girl was carrying a doll - a doll eerily resembling her – _a doll without a head_.

And why was she staring at him with her sparkling, marble-round little girl’s eyes?

Aziraphale had started an engaging conversation with Grandmama – Crowley wanted equally to know what they were negotiating so excitedly and to simply grab him and run for the hills. None of this made any sense, whichever way he turned it.

“It’s dinnertime, mother?” the boy exclaimed as soon as he entered the room.

Morticia gave him a disapproving look. “Pugsley, my darling, is that all you can think of? We have guests! Show your good education!”

The boy straightened up – his sister was still scrutinizing Crowley – and turned to the demon. “How do you do, sir,” he greeted, “my name is Pugsley Addams, sir, this is my sister Wednesday. Glad to meet you, sir.”

“Likewise,” Crowley forced himself, laboriously, to reply; but at least half of the pressure then fell off, because the boy – Pugsley – took his place at the table immediately after having fulfilled his duty and loaded his plate with whatever was simmering in the cauldron.

Wednesday was still ogling him.

Lurch went to the adjacent room, growling and shaking his head. Probably the servant room? Crowley thought he remembered that butlers and similar servants never dined at the same table as their masters.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

3: Crowley had tried Fugu once. He had the advantage of being immortal, but still, the fish had created a strange, crackling and ringing sensation in his stomach and between his ears. He was still at odds with himself if it was an experience he intended to repeat. The taste hadn’t been remotely spectacular enough for a life-threatening foodstuff.


	4. Chapter 4

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” Morticia asked her guests while Gomez took the place of honour at the head of the table and she sat next to him, carefully arranging the extensions of her dress on the floor. Crowley finally woke from his uncomfortable trance and, hesitantly and reluctantly, took the place allotted to him; so, he sat between Aziraphale and his new friend, “Grandmama”, and exactly opposite the scary little girl.

Yes, the doll sat clearly visible on the table next to her.

Yes, her interest in him seemed unbroken…

The family helped themselves generously to the contents of the cauldron, toasted with steaming wine poured out by a disembodied hand that had climbed out of the rectangular box4, and ate with unbroken vigour. Crowley glanced at the meal only insofar as to determine that it was a sort of soup; but the smell alone made the demon desire to push the plate far away. The soup not only had a marshy odour - one you might expect of something you might encounter in the deeper, less visited depths of Hell; it smelled poisonous upon closer inspection, and Crowley could swear – if he hadn’t started hallucinating – that there were a few small eyes floating in it. Not necessarily _human_ eyeballs, they were too small for that, but…

He finally managed to attract Aziraphale’s attention since he was not very enthusiastic about the cuisine either and to establish their silent communication channel. 

_Are you enjoying yourself now_ , he asked with an arched eyebrow.

 _I don’t know what your problem is_ , Aziraphale returned silently. _They are lovely people. A little… out of the ordinary maybe, but all in all…_

_‘They are lovely people’… just listen to yourself!_

_I am listening to you presently, dear, and I find that uncomfortable enough._

_**Uncomfortable?!** _

_You of all people should know that you don’t, oh, you never do judge a book by its cover…_

_It’s okay. Fine. Fine by me. If you’re certain, angel. Have you considered how we can get out of here?_

_By the front door. However else?_

_Aziraphale, these folks make my skin crawl._

_I don’t know what your problem is, Crowley!_

_Did you listen to your ‘lovely people’ for half a sentence, angel?_

_Did you? They honestly care about being good hosts! What is bothering you so much that you can’t overlook it?_

_Take, for example, the fact that the little girl is **still** gawking at me!_

The angel glanced quickly at Wednesday.

_Be that as it may, Crowley. What harm can it do? Let her stare, she is merely a child._

_A child with a **headless doll!**_

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and – Crowley knew it all too well – bit back an overbearing-arrogant-worried sigh, being practiced at not swearing and certainly not starting now. _Just pull yourself together for another hour, dear_ , he asked his friend. _How long can it still take? Just sit here and be civil and try not to attract too much attention._

Drawing too much attention… Crowley pulled a face, breaking their connection and reaching for the tarnished spoon to scoop up some soup and let it drip back into the bowl. You should talk about attracting attention… in all this white and cream you stand out like a sore thumb.

Finally, in order to do Aziraphale a favour and not to offend the hosts, he miracled the soup into the ether – or ideally into the next patch of mud where it belonged – as inconspicuously as he could and returned a clean plate with stiff and halfway insincere thanks. Grandmama soon after that served the promised roast yak with a side of potatoes, including the herbs, and a ragout made from a colourful potpourri of toxic and edible mushrooms. The demon even tried a little, and although the greasy and sinewy meat didn’t agree with him, the mushrooms and the boiled and salted potatoes weren’t all that bad.

Still – it went the same way as the soup. For the most part.

The dessert, however, he enjoyed: the Addamses served heavily burned black coffee or tea made from either henbane, horsetail, aconite, laburnum or lily of the valley and a cake made from belladonna, holly apple and other fermented fruit. His physical body showed some tickling, tingling, hissing and jolting rejection reactions, but the poison and alcohol went to his head too, and that made the whole situation a little more bearable. Even the fact that little Wednesday’s eyes were still glued to him.

“Exquisite,” commented Gomez, wiping his moustache as he put the cutlery aside, “You’ve outdone yourself, Grandmama, as usual.”

“Yes, bravo, bravo, quite superb,” Morticia joined in with her husband’s praise, rising with a smile and turning to leave, “but if you – if my guests would charmingly excuse me now, I have to feed Cleopatra.”

“Your dog?” Crowley surprised himself by asking, poison and alcohol bubbling in his brain and guts. He felt a giggle rise and controlled himself masterfully. After all, Aziraphale had said to pull himself together… yes.

“No, no,” she answered with a laugh, reaching for a glass bowl full of minced meat that stood on a sideboard, “my African strangler. An impressive specimen too, in the wild they hardly grow to such sizes… do you want to see her?”

“Capital idea!” Gomez exclaimed.

African strangler? That sounded snakelike enough to rouse the demon’s interest. “Yeah, sure, why not…” Crowley heard himself mumble – he was looking at and listening to his own activities from a darkened back chamber of his consciousness, blissfully untouched – and pushed himself out of the chair. He joined Morticia who scurried away, barely noticing that Gomez was doing the same, but Aziraphale was not.

With growing interest Crowley noticed that Morticia was not leading him into a room with a terrarium or perhaps into the garden, but directly into the greenhouse he had previously admired. The flora here was indeed remarkable: plants that showed bold, yet pale flowers and broad, strong green leaves, a number of rose stems without blossoms or leaves (impressive thorns, though) in vases, sturdy creepers, and then there was…

Then there was the monstrosity Morticia approached, flattering and making smooching sounds. The plant acknowledged it with nodding, wavy movements.

In the end, the demon had probably not been all that wrong: the African strangler, if it was really this plant the hostess had meant, bore a striking resemblance to a snake. A snake that was much too long, too big, cylindrical and overgrown with smaller tendrils and leaflets. At the top of this monster’s… body?... sat a mouth and no more; a mouth that was closed by a series of certainly razor-sharp extensions, reminiscent of fangs.

The plant unlocked these extensions as the matriarch approached it and caressed the foliage around it. “Yes, of course, Cleopatra, my darling, mother is here, you will be fed right now,” she cooed at the plant, putting the bowl aside and generously scooping up meat with a wooden spoon.

“Open wide now…” she murmured – and the plant obeyed. It had the dough stuffed into its throat and wolfed it down, gorging.

Terribly interesting. Crowley felt bubbly – was it a scream of horror that stuck in his throat like a badly descending pill? – but the combination of belladonna and mushroom potpourri with alcohol (quite an extraordinary amount of alcohol) was enough of a relief that he could watch Morticia Addams feeding her overgrown carnivorous plant spoonfuls of meat with mild, distant fascination.

“An impressive specimen,” Gomez, chewing on a cigar again, repeated his wife’s judgment. “Do you know your way around plants?”

Crowley remembered the shivering weeds in his London apartment and in those moments yearned blurrily for his Plant Mister, filled to the brim with Holy Water… what would that do to these eccentrics here, he couldn’t help but wonder?

“I grow the most luxurious and verdant and magnificent plants in all of London,” he heard himself reply, repeatedly stumbling over his own, much too sluggish tongue.

“Oh, a connoisseur.” Morticia winked at him. 

Cleopatra gurgled and smacked and gorged.

“No reason to be modest!” Gomez’ energetic cheerfulness rang in Crowley’s ears and he scowled, almost a bit painfully. “They’re probably the best plants in all of the British Isles, honour to whom honour is due, isn’t it?”

Growling, Crowley tilted his head. Was he going to respond to this compliment? In a way, he wanted to. He just didn’t know how. Instead, he reached out – without knowing exactly why and what for – and patted what possibly passed for Cleopatra’s head. He probably only did it to reassure himself of the reality of the moving creeper – to be absolutely sure that this was really happening, that he was indeed seeing what he thought he was seeing and had not yet gone completely bonkers. 

The plant reared up; it took a few moments for those present to understand that it was pressing against the demon’s fingers.

It likes me, he thought, trying his dam- blessedest to ward off bilious disgust.

He had never been more averse to the idea of adding some carnivorous tropical plants to his own greenhouse.

“You indeed seem to know how to deal with plants,” said Morticia happily, continuing to feed her lap strangler. “Cleopatra is such a sensitive, delicate little creature. She knows exactly who she can and cannot trust. People usually tend not to believe this…”

You don’t say, Crowley thought… but kept it to himself.

Open the mouth.

Here comes the spoon.

Clean it well.

Close the mouth.

Gorging…

And these kissing noises…

“What kind of plants are you growing?” Morticia asked.

Open the mouth.

“Huh?” asked Crowley sluggishly. He had been busy fully embracing the sensation of Cleopatra’s rubbery leaves on his fingertips and convincing himself it was real.

Here comes the spoon.

“What kind of plants do you have at home? In London?”

Close the mouth.

Gorging – and kisses, kisses.

Crowley cocked his head slightly to the side – he tried hard to remember any species, but mostly, even when he was sober, he couldn’t think of them. It was just green stuff. Foliage. Weeds. Only worthy of names insofar as one could use them to subdue them. ‘Certainly nothing like this here,’ was the answer on the tip of his tongue, but he bit down on it and could prevent himself from uttering it. “Oh… oh, this and that,” he grumbled instead, “Whatever… I can get my hands on. And whatever grows well. It must have been a piece of work to get that one through customs…”

“Customs, Mr. Crowley?” The matriarch blinked at him.

Open the mouth.

“You said that it was… an African strangler? Are there no… no import restrictions or something?”

“I see.” Morticia laughed as she stuffed the next portion of feed down her mutant monster’s throat. “Well, back then, you see, she was smaller… and in such a case…” the next helping was lifted out of the bowl, the edges carefully scraped out, “… it is rather practical to be married to a man for whom money isn’t an obstacle. Now, Cleopatra, last bite, then we will take an afternoon nap, won’t we…”

Here comes the spoon.

So these people were obscenely rich… Crowley wetted his lips, gazing into the distance. That explained the one or the other thing. It didn’t explain everything – or merely enough – by far, but at least a few things made more sense now.

Satisfied, the matriarch placed the wooden spoon in the empty bowl and absentmindedly stroked her plant’s cylindrical body a few times before turning to Crowley. “We should let her rest now. African stranglers need their midday rest. Come into the living room and we’ll see what Gomez is up to,” she invited her guest with a charming smile. Crowley astounded himself – once again – by offering her his arm which she accepted with a hint of a curtsey and let her lead him out of the greenhouse in the usual shuffling way. 

It was so much easier to be boundlessly friendly if you could drunkenly dismiss or negate the abnormalities of your society, the demon thought foggily. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind he sensed a certain anxiety for Aziraphale – wondering where he was and what in the nine Hells he was doing – but that was a distant concern. Hard to grasp in Crowley’s sluggish, syrup-like world.

The angel… would need to take care of himself. If he couldn’t, it was about time that he learnt.

\----------------------------------------------------------------

4: Crowley had by this point stopped wondering about anything. If he hadn’t, so he presumed, he’d be well underway to the loss of his mind. Or had he merely reached the end of his thought capacity?


	5. Chapter 5

Gomez had returned to the table he had been at when the guests arrived – only now did the demon realize that a highly detailed miniature landscape spanned the table, adorned with tiny figurines (people and dogs mainly, but there were also some birds), cars, bicycles and scooters, fake trees, bushes and houses, tidy, artificial-looking grass areas, a translucent blue lacquered brook, mountains through which tunnels were dug and between which bridges stretched, road signs, letter boxes, rails which wound around the world in complicated loops and model trains on them, in short, everything you needed to build a semi-realistic miniature world.

Of course, with the exception of the small, tastefully placed explosive charges which’s cables came together in a box at the corner of the table.

“This is going to be a big moment,” Morticia pointed out to Crowley, patting his wrist as she brought the demon closer. Her husband was just putting a few cars behind a bright orange electric locomotive; on another track a little above that one, a steam locomotive with the same number of cars was waiting, facing the opposite direction. Both ensembles were haphazardly thrown together, contained freight and passenger cars from different eras and in different stages of wear with no discernible pattern. 

“How long have you been working on this landscape, darling?” Morticia asked, stopping next to her husband.

Gomez took a few moments to ponder. “Must have been two months or three,” he replied with a beam.

“And now it will finally experience its destiny”. That cheerful satisfaction in Morticia’s voice. Crowley knew what was coming, and although he found it outlandish, he also noticed that it made him want to giggle. “And you will be there, Mr. Crowley… it must be such an exciting moment for you.”

It wasn’t… not really. But he thought he could somehow foggily comprehend the childlike joy that Gomez’ expression exuded.

Why?

Oh to _Hell_ with ‘why’.

“Will you do the honour, Querida?” – with which Gomez presented Morticia with one of the two steering units. She accepted with no more than a smile. 

Gomez, however, turned to Crowley, reaching for the detonator. “The paramount duty, of course, should – no, must go to our guest,” he said, placing the device in Crowley’s hands. His moustache quivered with excitement. Crowley had to keep himself from starting to see it as a sentient being of its own. “As soon as the trains are both on the bridge and only just haven’t collided – as close as you can get them, Mr. Crowley – you take action. Do you see the red button? Just push briskly, it will be a brilliant explosion.”

“I dunno,” Crowley muttered to himself, turning the trigger back and forth in his hands. “You spent months of your life building this model – and now you just want to blow it up?”

“But good sir, what else is there to do with a railway model?” Gomez appeared congenial, but also at an utter loss. Even Morticia gave a little, uncomprehending, if still loving headshake.

“I dunno. Put it in a corner and admire it?” It sounded stupid to the demon himself.

“And where’s the fun in that?” Gomez laughed briefly before picking up the second train’s steering unit. “Now, Cara Mia, if we both keep up an average speed of, oh, one hundred to one hundred and twenty kilometres an hour, the trains will meet precisely… right here on the bridge. Ready?”

Should the demon try again to convince his hosts not to do that?

“Certainly, darling.”

Was it even worth trying to convince his hosts of anything? Curiously enough, Crowley also wanted to see the miniature reduced to fire and smoke.

Both hosts now powered up their trains, and the locomotives picked up speed, puffing and squeaking and grating, along with their already slightly battered load. Electric whirring accentuated the scene and every now and then something cracked in the line. The demon watched the circulation of the steam locomotive, which occasionally gave a piercing whistle, uphill and downhill, around bends and straight ahead, through stations, past benches and groves, over small bridges, also over one or the other small figure which had been tastefully placed on the rail tracks, making it wobble and struggle a bit. Every now and then elements that were too close to the rails were knocked over and dragged along for short distances, but that didn’t matter to the locomotive or its conductor. It finally wound itself up the mountain, working the little cogs, chugging and slowing down in the upward strain.

Gomez grinned like a maniac. Crowley felt like following suit.

The steam locomotive rolled into the tunnel; Crowley felt his big moment coming and raised the trigger.

Click click click…

_Swish._

The trains left their respective tunnels, entered their sides of the bridge construction, almost in alignment, and moved unerringly over the explosive packets. Straight towards each other.

Crowley felt his trigger finger itching.

Not yet… _not yet…_

Gomez let his steam locomotive whistle loudly, giving an anticipatory hoot himself.

The collision was inevitable…

Crowley pulled the trigger as barely a finger could have fit between the two locomotives, and so the crash of the intermeshing and derailing trains combined with the boom of the explosives. The bridge buckled and broke in the intended places, and the locomotives and wagons, some whole and some broken into pieces, rained down into the valley below the demolished bridge. Crowley had miraculously intensified the whole thing a little so that well-rounded, wholesome clouds of fire were now spreading across the model, wiping out everything they found and leaving nothing behind but melted, merging and soot-blackened lumps5. Thick, acrid smoke and stench of scorched plastic and metal rose from what remained of the train set.

Crowley sniffled. Beneath the elation, something about this felt wrong, though the demon couldn't put his finger on what exactly it might be.

“What a wonderful sight,” crooned the hostess, seemingly much as enraptured as Crowley, and let herself be pulled into an embrace by her husband.

“Unparalleled, Cara Mia,” he confirmed, “Like you.”

“Oh Bubele…”

Crowley heard kissing sounds again but ignored them. His gaze was fixed on the miserable remains of the model from which flames continued to flicker here and there.

He should hold on to that. Maybe something could be made of it…

He didn’t know how much time he had wasted contemplating the ruins of the railroad model – time seemed to be breaking away and disappearing in large chunks, Crowley’s consciousness was jumping from one event to the other – but finally the butler, Lurch, entered again, wearing a hilarious striped cap in hysterical mismatch to his butler's suit, cleared his throat, earthquake-like, and reported: “Theeeeeeeee caaaaaaaaar iiiiiiiiiiiis noooooooow reeeeeeeeaaaaaaaadyyyyyy, Mrs. Aaaaaaaaadddaaaaaaaams.”

Car? What car? Crowley turned toward his hosts with an inquiringly raised eyebrow.

“Oh dear, I almost forgot,” Morticia said in horror, while Gomez looked up from behind her shoulder like an apprehended convict and stealthily arranged her night-black hair, “We had so much fun together… of course, Mr. Crowley, we promised to send you back into town… Lurch, do you know where our valued second guest is?”

Lurch grunted and shook his head.

Second… oh yes, Aziraphale. Aziraphale was here too.

Where in the nine Hells had that angel disappeared to?

\-----------------------------------------------

Aziraphale was all too happy to let his friend go with Morticia and Gomez Addams – it seemed now that they had been so kindly catered to, he was finally loosening up a little and recognizing the hospitality of these people for what it was. The angel himself would have been ashamed to even _think_ such disrespectful things about the people who had so openly and warmly welcomed them in their home and offered to help… and Crowley said them too! Well, admittedly, to him alone, but wasn’t that bad enough?

The angel was now almost glad that things had turned out this way – it was certainly good for both of them to broaden their world view a bit.

The fact that he had had this thought made him almost laugh fretfully.

The angel had partaken of the food with extreme caution, and he was a little embarrassed to admit it. If you were accustomed to dining in the best restaurants in the world, yak steak in mushroom sauce was no longer a special treat… and this soup! That would have alerted the health inspection to many a restaurant. However, the angel had not been able to bring himself to make an even slightly ungrateful impression, and so he had used the same trick as his friend, always mindful of the pride and good opinion of his hosts. Only the steaming wine he had enjoyed very much. It was dark, heavy and slightly bitter and left a pleasant, prickling tingle on the tongue and throat.

Now he leaned back and felt full and blissful in his skin…

“Are you going to stay?” asked a slight, thin voice – Aziraphale opened his eyes and scanned the room for his interlocutor. 

The daughter. Wednesday, yes? Wednesday, who had remained at the table and, apparently in hesitancy, fussed about with her doll. The rest of the family had excused themselves – Grandmama had mumbled something about an alligator, and Pugsley had claimed to check on Uncle Fester, whoever that was.

“I mean, longer – overnight or something?”

Concentrate on her. Be an agreeable converser.

“No, my dear,” replied the angel, making eye contact with the little girl after he had pondered her question sufficiently. He leaned over the table toward her and put on his friendliest smile. Nobody should be able to say that he, Aziraphale of the Principalities, guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, could not handle children. “No, I am afraid we will have to leave very soon. Why would you ask? It is because of Crowley, is it not?”

The girl said nothing. But her narrow lips trembled a little and she lifted the doll off the table to absent-mindedly bed it in her lap. Her movements gave the impression that she didn’t know what to do with her own hands.

Aziraphale smiled. It felt weird – as if the smile was too wide for his face. Might there have been something in the wine?

“He told me he saw you look at him a lot – for a long time,” he continued, “you like Crowley, do you?”

Wednesday turned away.

Aziraphale was speculating faintly how old the girl might be.

“Just a little, yes?”

“Not at all,” Wednesday replied with all the teenage defiance she could muster, and now Aziraphale heard himself laugh.

“Oh. Well then. That’s probably even better that way – he is really a little too old for you.” 

That he _dared_ to say anything like that about Crowley! It wasn’t actually very considerate to talk about the age of your friends, even if it was your own age as well. 

“By the way, I am sorry that your doll is broken. Can’t your father give you…”

“Broken?” Wednesday raised her head and stared at Aziraphale questioningly. There was the most adorable childish sparkle in her eyes. How old was she, really? Maybe twelve? Younger? “Marie Antoinette is exactly how she should be. You know what…”

“Yes, I know what happened to Marie Antoinette”. Aziraphale shuddered. Marie Antoinette hadn’t been a natural-born stateswoman, but she hadn’t deserved such a demise. And to think that if Crowley hadn’t been there, the same thing could have happened to him… The angel’s clasped hands cramped briefly.

“I have Anne Boleyn in the playroom, too. And Maximilien Robespierre! Should I show you?”

Aziraphale was just opening his mouth to signal his approval as a deep, throaty grumble interrupted him – vibrating and inarticulate, yet completely different from the sound Lurch, the dutiful butler, habitually produced. He turned toward the corner from which the noise had originated and was stunned.

There was… a lion. A full-grown male lion stood in the passage from the kitchen to the basement, rubbing its thick neck and muscular shoulder on the door frame and growling gutturally.

Aziraphale rose abruptly – and had to grasp hold of the edge of the table as the world around him blurred into a swirl of colours (well, blacks) and lines. But he got around very quickly, knowing what was important and that he was needed here.

Lion.

Little girl.

He was a guest here – and his hosts had entrusted their little daughter to him.

Nothing could happen to Wednesday…

\--------------------------------------------------

5: Though the Addamses would later, when they checked on the table, find none of the little figures harmed in any way - neither the people nor the dogs or the birds. Not even a smudge on them. Not even those that Gomez had so painstakingly placed on the railroad tracks. Gomez would remark upon the oddity of the thing, and Morticia would reassure him by suggesting to give them to the children later to experiment upon. Even the sturdiest plastic was susceptible to _some_ form of destruction, after all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers,  
> I want to preface this chapter with saying that this is the one in which the torture devices finally come into play. (Pun intended.) If they, or the mention or threat of electrocution make you squeamish, I'd kindly advise you to skip this one and see the aftermath in the next chapter. Thank you.  
> Also, I want to apologize beforehand to everyone who doesn't like authors doing mean things to Aziraphale. I'm guilty.
> 
> With that out of the way, I hope you enjoy the chapter!  
> Thank you for reading!

He was just stepping towards the predator in a (hopefully) awe-inspiring lunge, reaching for the flaming sword which of course he didn’t have on his side as Wednesday jumped up with a happy “Kitty Cat!” and hopped over to the lion without a trace of fear. Aziraphale felt a cold shudder as the lion, fixing its amber eyes on the child, raised its paw with her barely an arm’s length away – but she grabbed and caressed and cuddled the paw as if this… Kitty Cat?... were no more than an ordinary domestic cat. Maybe a little big, but still tame and perfectly harmless.

“Kitty Cat seldom comes out of the basement,” she explained, scratching the lion’s mane, as the angel approached with probing steps. “He is very shy and very sensitive, mother says. And he doesn’t like strangers.”

Kitty Cat growled at Aziraphale as soon as the angel had come close enough to touch it (not that he ever would). He accepted the warning and kept a respectful distance.

“That I can see,” he murmured, swallowing hard.

“I have to bring him back now,” announced Wednesday, walking past Kitty Cat with her doll on her side and grasping its mane like a collar, “Father said that if we want pets, we have to look after them ourselves. I’m supposed to take care of Kitty Cat and Homer the way Pugsley takes care of Aristotle, and Kitty Cat’s place is in the basement. Do you want to come along? My playroom is there too.”

Aziraphale merely gurgled – but he followed at a safe distance as Wednesday led her lion by the mane down the stairs into the surprisingly bright and airy basement. Perhaps the frightening animal would change its mind, and then the unarmed, innocent child shouldn’t be alone with it. 

“Homer and… Aristotle?” The angel shivered a little. “More lions?”

“No, silly.” Wednesday was obviously delighted to be able to talk about her animals. “Homer is my pet spider – he’s my favourite; I breed them, too – and Aristotle is Pugsley’s octopus. Homer is up in my room, I’d have to go get him first if you want to say hello, but Aristotle has a pool down here, and if we go out, there is Grandmama’s alligator. She is probably wrestling him right now, it’s good for digestion after eating, she says, I don’t want to disturb her.”

So a full-grown lion… an octopus… a spider, though, probably a whole gaggle of spiders… and an alligator. Not to forget the African strangler, whatever that might be. Those were… quite interesting pets. Was it even legal to keep them in the house, even in such a wild, unexplored, lawless country like America? And what kind of import papers and formalities might arise? If he only remembered what documents he had had to forge to convince a single zookeeper that he was the rightful owner of a single red-bellied black snake… which he wasn’t, but, well… though, now that he thought about it: it was almost to be called a miracle that the menagerie here did not contain a snake.

Unless, of course, the African strangler…

Lingering on the doorstep, Aziraphale watched Wednesday playing with the lion with steady, nervous readiness to intervene. It was surreal to him: there was a mere scrawny little girl, cavorting around with a fully grown and healthy male lion whose shoulder height was about equal to her total height. It followed her with long, powerful lunges as she ran crosswise through the padded room, sometimes at her side, sometimes just a breath behind her. Wednesday made the animal run and jump around, tossed a ball and had Kitty Cat bring it back, played tug of war with it, lured it and sent it away and scratched its belly – indeed she leaned fully onto its ribcage as it threw itself on its back in front of her, punching and kicking at the air with all fours.

Aziraphale kept bitterly anticipating the lion turning to show its mean face, biting the child’s neck and tearing her limb from limb, but it never happened. Indeed, Wednesday seemed so strong that she repeatedly managed to force the lion a few steps backwards in a playful scramble – remarkable not just for a girl her age, but for everyone, always and regardless of age and experience. 

Finally, the two resorted to a ball game, and after Aziraphale had watched them for a few minutes and wondered what bizarrely shaped balls they had, he understood what happened to the heads of Wednesday’s unfortunate dolls. That produced a cool shiver down his spine.

But finally, the kitten was tired and curled up to sleep in a corner of the room on a fringed blanket, already showing traces of claw usage. Wednesday, as unscathed as on the day she was born, patted its shoulder briefly, then after that grabbed her largely undamaged doll in one, Aziraphale’s hand in the other and led the angel out of the room. “I'm going to show you the playroom now,” she decided, keeping hold of Aziraphale’s hand with confidence and single-mindedness, “come along, this way.”

Aziraphale, like a sleepwalker, followed the pull of the child’s hand (the small, tender hand that disappeared into his) and the bobbing braids on the back of the child’s head. That had been… weird; even he noticed that now. Aziraphale was negotiating with himself whether he should grow restless, afraid or, as Crowley had already suggested, eager to leave this place as quickly as possible, but he did not seem to be quite able to make a firm decision. The parents, they were so well-mannered, attentive and polite, how could the children ever be dangerous or hostile?

He didn’t look left or right as they walked down the rough, but at least clean and dry underground passages made of brick walls; the sight of the ‘playroom’ that Wednesday led him to convinced him that this had been a good decision.

The boy, Pugsley, was there too – in the process of sharpening a guillotine with a cloth and whetstone. He only looked up briefly as his sister and the guest entered, nodded his head curtly, mumbled a slurred “Sir,” and turned back to the blade.

Aziraphale felt growing faintness in his gut as he looked around the densely packed room. Apart from the guillotine, it contained several rather painful-looking devices of different sizes, shapes and states of age and wear. 

Mounted on the walls were maces, clubs, tongs, bull peas and other more or less antique equipment. 

An expansive wooden wheel leaned against the rear wall between two iron maidens6, closed with padlocks as a precaution. 

There was a wide bed with nails as long as an adult’s hand, and an upright rack. 

There was a long table on the left side of the room that looked like a laboratory in and of itself, with flasks, vials, tubes, and Bunsen burners; a distinct burnt smell emanated from this corner. 

There was an electric chair; the wood and leather straps gave testimony of frequent use. 

On the shelves sat thumb screws, Spanish boots, a headlamp, a hodgepodge of tools (hammers, saws, more, though smaller tongs and pliers, screwdrivers) and different nails and screws, something that looked like a car battery with connected jumper cables, and finally an assortment of different bottles, receptacles and hypodermic needles.

Aziraphale swallowed. Was that the karmic punishment7 for what Crowley had saved him from during the French Revolution?

“Pugsley,” exclaimed Wednesday, pulling herself free from Aziraphale’s hand and running to her brother, “Is that blade sharp again? Can we play with it again?”

How – what? _Now_?

“No, children,” he heard himself murmur, feeling a spark of panic rise up his throat, raising both hands feebly but protectively, “let’s… not play with the guillotine, yes? You have to have other… much nicer… toys than the ones here.”

“But these are a lot of fun, sir,” replied the boy, grinning and picking up the jumper cables, “would you like to try those, sir? They give a wonderful tickling feeling.” 

Before the angel could utter a sound to defend himself, the boy had pinched the pliers onto two fingers on each defending hand, and a surge of electricity passed through his angelic body.

Indeed… Pugsley hadn’t lied. A wonderful tickling sensation made Aziraphale weak in the knees and gave him difficulty to keep his saliva in his mouth and his eyeballs looking straight ahead. His heart was racing and raging in his chest – it was problematic to prevent it from breaking through the ribs and the whole chest from bursting, which was strange, because he also felt that the rest of his innermost contracted, pulled inward, rather than spread. Under the chirping of ghostly, pure white doves that fluttered invisibly around his forehead the angel stumbled backwards and sank down onto the next best surface.

Unfortunately, that surface turned out to be the electric chair’s seat.

“Oh goody!” exclaimed Wednesday – somewhere around four feet of pure, giddy enthusiasm, sparkling child eyes and shining child teeth, “Nobody wanted to play with us with the electric chair for ages!”

Aziraphale raised a hand and tried to guard himself, tried to get up, yet nothing but a weak gagging escaped his throat and his legs refused to obey. Miracle, he thought – I have to, quickly, work a miracle, have to heal myself or magic me out of here, then reprimand the children and, as sorry as I am, but, yes, have a serious talk with their parents…

“Aziraphale?”

A well-known voice.

The children ignored it – with diligent and skilful swiftness they strapped Aziraphale’s wrists to the armrests of the execution device.

The angel gagged again.

“Oh, Mr. Fell? Are you there?”

Morticia!

Wednesday leaned over him to fasten the breastplate while Pugsley got a stool, probably to position the forehead parts.

“Bless to high Heaven, Aziraphale!”

I – am – here…

“I hate to tell you, good sir, but this is an old house – even I don’t know how many corridors and chambers there are down here.” Gomez. Unduly stress-free, jovial and – yes, downright amused. How could he? “And where some of the hallways lead. That would take all the fun and excitement out of it, wouldn’t it? If he got lost wandering down here, it may well be that we will never find…”

Aziraphale wanted to call out. But Wednesday, he didn’t know whether she had guessed and wanted to stop him or whether it was simply part of the procedure, pushed a thick, musty-tasting piece of wood between his teeth right at this time. Then she retreated and, with anticipation flashing in the flaming child’s eyes, stood next to Pugsley, who had picked up a console adorned with several controls and a big, round button. “This will be fun,” she promised, nodding eagerly.

Aziraphale screamed against the object in his mouth.

At that moment Morticia stuck her head into the room. “Wednesday, Pugsley, darlings, we are looking for Mr. Fell, our other guest. You haven’t perchance seen…” – then, her eyes found the confined angel and a big, maternally proud smile spread across her face. 

“Now isn’t that remarkable,” she commented with excruciating affection, leaning back and crossing her arms, “He plays with the children. I must say you befriended each other in a rush; Wednesday is usually not that accessible. At school my dears hardly have any friends… sometimes I wonder why.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------

6: Aziraphale couldn’t help but assume they were meant for the children once they were grown. That they didn’t have their own at their age… a spooky thought. Aziraphale wasn’t particularly comfortable with it in the back of his head.  
7: And was he, as an angel, even supposed to believe in Karma?


	7. Chapter 7

She leaned out of the room again to call for whoever there might still be – and a few moments later Crowley rushed in, making for the angel without as much as a breather. Aziraphale’s relief could not be put in words. He could have positively kissed him!

“Hey!” Pugsley exclaimed as the demon, grumbling to himself, undid the leather straps, “We haven’t even finished our game!”

“Pugsley, what do you say?” Morticia, flanked by her husband who had put his arm around her waist, sounded stern.

“Sir,” added the boy, quite reluctantly.

“But…” began Wednesday.

“I’m sure the gentlemen would love to finish playing with you,” Gomez entered the argument, gesturing with the cigar, “but they really have to be going now so that they are home before the sun comes up. Sometimes other things are more important than games, you have to understand, children!”

Aziraphale’s legs were still soft like jelly and his tongue sagging and useless in his mouth as Crowley had released him and helped him up, winding an arm around his shoulders. “Go… Sa… whoever, you are heavy,” the demon grunted between clenched teeth, and, “What the Heaven did they do to you?”

Aziraphale gargled and spat aside. It was insanely rude, he was aware, and he would have loved to sink into the floor in mortification, but at the moment he just couldn’t help himself.

Could he walk? He wasn’t too sure. Certainly not without stumbling every now and then.

“It’s fine, really,” grumbled the demon, leading his friend step by step carefully out of the playroom-cum-torture chamber, “I see that you cannot speak right now, so just let it be for now, okay? We finally get out of this blessed place, into the city, then we can talk.”

Fortunately, Aziraphale recovered a little on the way – sufficiently that he miraculously reduced the electrical charge in his body to a minimum. He was still limping, but at least was able to keep himself on his own feet and exert a modicum of control over his tongue, and saliva. Only now did he notice that Crowley’s face was slightly whitish and that he smelled of smoke and charred electrics. What might have happened to _him_?

As promised earlier, the night black convertible of the Addams family with butler Lurch at the wheel was already waiting outside the fence. At the garden gate, Aziraphale, much recovered and restored, turned to his hosts, took Morticia’s hand to kiss it again, which she answered with a curtsy, and shook Gomez’ hand. “Despite everything, I would like to thank you very much,” he said while Crowley awkwardly climbed into the car's back seat, “for your… hospitality, help and the hearty meal. Mr. Crowley and I appreciate it very much. Even if I, as much as I would like to forego that, believe me, but I have to solemnly say that your children…” He shook his head wistfully, unwilling to say a bad word about benefactors.

“Oh, you know what children are like,” Gomez said dismissively. “Small troublemakers, them. You have to give them a little space – a little leeway, you see – let them make their own experiences, make their mistakes and learn from them and all that. After all, what can a child possibly do? Lovable little rascals, are they not?”

Aziraphale made serious moves to clarify his objection to the children’s conduct, but then an impatient look from his friend drilled into the back of his neck. _Let us finally wash our hands of this rotten place_ , he heard Crowley’s voice echo in his head – _we’ve been stuck here for far too long._

Since this was something the angel fully agreed with, he turned away with a final nod toward the hosts to take a seat in the convertible himself. He couldn’t help but think that Crowley, who had a weak spot for antique black cars, should by all rights be delighted with this one, even if it was certainly not a Bentley.

What he hadn’t expected, however, was that, as soon as he had sat down, something pinched him and gave a soft, almost trilling sound – he shot Crowley an irritated-warning look, after all he couldn’t possibly be sure whether the demon had a whole litter of snakes on his person. But as the demon looked much as confused and unsuspecting as himself, the angel quizzically turned his gaze towards the little chirping sounds.

And jerked back.

Two things sat dead centre in the back seat. One thing was relatively inconspicuous and uncomplicated: a simple, rectangular cardboard box with a black bow around it. Almost cute. 

Next to it, however, was a palm-sized clay pot containing… whatever that green stuff might be. Thick as Aziraphale’s thumb and similar in shape, overgrown with muddy green leaves and small vinelets, the thing wriggled and swayed in damp earth like an oversized, leafy worm, but at the very front (or at the top?) it had… was that that a mouth? It had to be, Aziraphale reckoned, if he followed his interpretation of the thorns around it as teeth.

“What on Earth…” he murmured, pressing a hand to his mouth.

Crowley gave a gurgling groan.

“These are our farewell gifts to you,” Morticia said, tripping closer with a lovely smile. Her husband also stepped forward and leaned against the metal car body with an expression that was to be expected from a shifty used car peddler. “For you, Mr. Fell, we prepared a fresh belladonna cake that Grandmama just baked – no, just take it, it’s our pleasure presenting it to you.”

Aziraphale swallowed. Had she read out of his eyes that he had been prepared to reject the gift in horror? Was he such a ruthless guest?

“We ourselves? No, don’t you worry about us, we’ll get another one. The cherries grew amiably this year,” added Gomez.

“Of course, Mr. Crowley, you have received the more permanent gift,” the hostess addressed the demon who was now picking up the clay pot with pointed fingers while the thumb-thick… object of leaf in it continued to twist and wind and chirp and squeak and snap, spreading the leafs right behind its 'head' akin to a feather crown, “We thought such a passionate and talented gardener as yourself couldn’t fly home without an offshoot of my dear Cleopatra. We know that you will treat her as nothing less than the princess she is.”

At closer inspection, though… somehow, as he was trying to look at it out of neutral, un-judgmental eyes, Aziraphale realized that he found the little leafy worm kind of endearing. And it was clearly alive – the way it twisted and toiled and meandered…

Morticia was probably right. Crowley and this… sprout… would certainly get along swimmingly if they only got the chance.

Crowley just gurgled. So the task of being the courteous, grateful guest would be up to Aziraphale again, he reckoned.

“We would like to thank you dearly,” he said to their hosts, who were slowly stepping back from the vehicle, and was surprised that he didn’t stammer in the slightest, “even if all of this would, surely, not have been strictly necessary…”

“If we only did what is necessary, we’d be in a worse place,” grinned Gomez.

“Certainly. So then, I hope you… will have a nice day. Days. A nice time. But we really have to be going now.”

“Of course. Take care, gentlemen, Gomez and I, we are looking forward to you visiting again, then you can tell us how Ishtar is doing.”

Crowley winced as he heard that name. “Ishtar?” he asked, sounding as if he had just been roused, and quite unkindly, from deepest sleep.

“Of course,” Morticia replied, “a big plant deserves a big name, doesn’t she?”

Crowley just grumbled; the family retreated behind their fence, which was the signal for the butler to start the engine – it roared and grumbled, but the car rolled smoothly and steadily out of the driveway, away from this uncanny place. Aziraphale took a deep, reassuring breath and touched one side of his face in disbelief, but also as a test; he was not surprised to find that cold sweat stood not only on his forehead, but also on his cheeks, neck, chin and temples. He was probably bathed in cold sweat all over, now that he thought about it, and it wasn’t undeserved either.

“Come and visit us should you ever be around again!” the hostess called after them, waving.

Crowley pulled himself together – it looked quite like he was sobering up – and shook first his head, then his whole body as if in unspeakable disgust. But the desperation had not left his eyes as he turned to look at the plant which he was still holding in front of him, contemplating it from all sides. “Whatever am I going to do with that,” he murmured, more to himself than to one of the creatures around him.

Aziraphale still felt addressed and replied, “Oh Crowley, love it, obviously. It is a living creature and it deserves, just like any other…”

The creature made a clicking-sucking sound.

“You never saw the fully grown-up one,” the demon replied dully.

Aziraphale bit back a pitying sound at his friend’s obvious misfortune and kept his hand, too, close to his side for the time being. “Believe in her and treat her well, then it will be fine,” he assured Crowley instead.

“That thing is a monster…”

“You know…” Aziraphale took a deep breath before deciding to verbalize the rest of this outrageous sentence, “… there are certain… creatures… who would have said the same about you…”

Crowley’s head whipped around to Aziraphale. His mouth was pinched, a deep frown line dug into his forehead. “You want to compare me to… the likes of that?” He shoved the thinly and shrilly complaining plant in Aziraphale’s face.

Instead of giving a verbalized answer, the angel raised a hand and stroked the leafy plant body with only two fingertips. It froze and gave a chirp that sounded somehow indecisive – but Aziraphale realized sufficiently well that this simple, short hesitation and stiffness had been enough to make Crowley doubt his rigorous rejection.

And that was probably the only thing the angel himself could hope to achieve in this regard…

\---------------------------------------------------------

“Such kind people,” breathed Morticia, leaning her shoulder against her husband who was standing behind her and had his hand rest on her hip. She herself had her arms crossed in front of her chest and smiled, lost in thought, as she watched the chugging and grumbling vehicle getting smaller in the distance, ever going toward the slowly brightening horizon. “Of course I’m happy that we were able to help them out, but still… what lovely people. What a pity that they had to leave so soon.”

“Do you think, Querida?” Gomez’ voice, hardly able to conceal he was playing with a cigar again, sounded reserved. “I don’t know. The blond fellow seemed a bit off to me.”

“How so, darling?” Morticia turned her head ever so slightly to be able to look at least at a fraction of her husband’s face.

“What kind of wacky person is walking around dressed like that?” Gomez thoughtfully shook his head. “All that white. One can only wonder what is going on in such a head… reminds me a bit of your sister Ophelia, Cara.”

“Oh Gomez, Ophelia belongs to the family.”

“Talk to me about it…”

There was a pause. Gomez rested his cheek against Morticia’s temple.

“I will admit, the white clothing is a bit bewildering…” She stroked his jaw and Gomez turned his grinning face to her. “But Gomez, darling, some people have a not quite comprehensible concept of beauty and style. You can’t blame them for that – you have to accept something like that, Gomez, and work with it! And he befriended Pugsley and Wednesday so quickly!”

“You are right, Cara Mia, as always. He seems to be unbeatable when dealing with children, strange manners or not. Will you give me the honour?”

With that he turned back to the house, and Morticia, taking his gallantly offered hand, let herself be led inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to take this moment to sincerely thank everybody who took the time to work through this story. Thank you for your time and energy, thank you for nice comments and kudos! I appreciate it a lot! Hopefully the story made you at leats snicker now and then.
> 
> Take care!  
> V


End file.
